LOST MARGARET
Anne found that she could go on living; the day came when she even
smiled again over one of Miss Cornelia’s speeches. But there was
something in the smile that had never been in Anne’s smile before and
would never be absent from it again.
On the first day she was able to go for a drive Gilbert took her down
to Four Winds Point, and left her there while he rowed over the channel
to see a patient at the fishing village. A rollicking wind was
scudding across the harbor and the dunes, whipping the water into
white-caps and washing the sandshore with long lines of silvery
breakers.
“I’m real proud to see you here again, Mistress Blythe,” said Captain
Jim. “Sit down--sit down. I’m afeared it’s mighty dusty here
today--but there’s no need of looking at dust when you can look at such
scenery, is there?”
“I don’t mind the dust,” said Anne, “but Gilbert says I must keep in
the open air. I think I’ll go and sit on the rocks down there.”
“Would you like company or would you rather be alone?”
“If by company you mean yours I’d much rather have it than be alone,”
said Anne, smiling. Then she sighed. She had never before minded
being alone. Now she dreaded it. When she was alone now she felt so
dreadfully alone.
“Here’s a nice little spot where the wind can’t get at you,” said
Captain Jim, when they reached the rocks. “I often sit here. It’s a
great place jest to sit and dream.”
“Oh--dreams,” sighed Anne. “I can’t dream now, Captain Jim--I’m done
with dreams.”
“Oh, no, you’re not, Mistress Blythe--oh, no, you’re not,” said Captain
Jim meditatively. “I know how you feel jest now--but if you keep on
living you’ll get glad again, and the first thing you know you’ll be
dreaming again--thank the good Lord for it! If it wasn’t for our
dreams they might as well bury us. How’d we stand living if it wasn’t
for our dream of immortality? And that’s a dream that’s BOUND to come
true, Mistress Blythe. You’ll see your little Joyce again some day.”
“But she won’t be my baby,” said Anne, with trembling lips. “Oh, she
may be, as Longfellow says, ‘a fair maiden clothed with celestial
grace’--but she’ll be a stranger to me.”
“God will manage better’n THAT, I believe,” said Captain Jim.
They were both silent for a little time. Then Captain Jim said very
softly:
“Mistress Blythe, may I tell you about lost Margaret?”
“Of course,” said Anne gently. She did not know who “lost Margaret”
was, but she felt that she was going to hear the romance of Captain
Jim’s life.
“I’ve often wanted to tell you about her,” Captain Jim went on.
“Do you know why, Mistress Blythe? It’s because I want somebody to
remember and think of her sometime after I’m gone. I can’t bear that
her name should be forgotten by all living souls. And now nobody
remembers lost Margaret but me.”
Then Captain Jim told the story--an old, old forgotten story, for it
was over fifty years since Margaret had fallen asleep one day in her
father’s dory and drifted--or so it was supposed, for nothing was ever
certainly known as to her fate--out of the channel, beyond the bar, to
perish in the black thundersquall which had come up so suddenly that
long-ago summer afternoon. But to Captain Jim those fifty years were
but as yesterday when it is past.
“I walked the shore for months after that,” he said sadly, “looking to
find her dear, sweet little body; but the sea never give her back to
me. But I’ll find her sometime, Mistress Blythe--I’ll find her
sometime. She’s waiting for me. I wish I could tell you jest how she
looked, but I can’t. I’ve seen a fine, silvery mist hanging over the
bar at sunrise that seemed like her--and then again I’ve seen a white
birch in the woods back yander that made me think of her. She had
pale, brown hair and a little white, sweet face, and long slender
fingers like yours, Mistress Blythe, only browner, for she was a shore
girl. Sometimes I wake up in the night and hear the sea calling to me
in the old way, and it seems as if lost Margaret called in it. And
when there’s a storm and the waves are sobbing and moaning I hear her
lamenting among them. And when they laugh on a gay day it’s HER
laugh--lost Margaret’s sweet, roguish, little laugh. The sea took her
from me, but some day I’ll find her. Mistress Blythe. It can’t keep
us apart forever.”
“I am glad you have told me about her,” said Anne. “I have often
wondered why you had lived all your life alone.”
“I couldn’t ever care for anyone else. Lost Margaret took my heart
with her--out there,” said the old lover, who had been faithful for
fifty years to his drowned sweetheart. “You won’t mind if I talk a
good deal about her, will you, Mistress Blythe? It’s a pleasure to
me--for all the pain went out of her memory years ago and jest left its
blessing. I know you’ll never forget her, Mistress Blythe. And if the
years, as I hope, bring other little folks to your home, I want you to
promise me that you’ll tell THEM the story of lost Margaret, so that
her name won’t be forgotten among humankind.”